Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

54 | Latching (Part One)

I don't listen to the priest as he walks up and down the aisle, greeting the eyes of everyone he meets. I don't listen to him as he literates the word of God and how the world is meant to be exactly how it is, and I don't listen to him as he explains Christ will save us from damnation.

Instead, I follow the rhythm of the song, the gradual beats heavily inducing me into a sense of peace within a grounds I wasn't entirely comfortable with. A mark of a portable park bench, my own serenity in a place I can't exactly call my own.

It drowns me into my thoughts, and once more, what follows the deep-end silence is a protruding train wreck that unravels at the seams. My first destination: Harlow.

I shut my eyes close, trying hard not to think of him. It's difficult, when he carries the rhythm of my heart and the blood that pumps through my veins—but I feel like I could. I can.

And if not, I have to.

"Dahlia," my mother mumbles, brushing her lips against the crown of my hair and drawing my eyes wide awake. "¿Estás bien?" Are you okay?

I tilt my head upwards, brown eyes meeting her crystal blue ones, and hiding away the sorrow that follows that question. "Estoy bien," I'm fine, I lied, not wanting her to assume the worst on a good day. I haven't told her about the fallout between Harlow and me, because deep down, I still wanted her to hold him on a pedestal of good assumptions. I don't want her to assume that, just because he did this one hurtful act, he's an outright terrible person. He's a good person, my person, and if my mother catches one whiff of his choices, she would never trust him again.

And for some goddamn reason, I want her to trust him.

Her gaze follows my expression, attempting to decipher me as best as a mother knows how. Her full lips part, wanting to add something, before she catches herself and shakes her head, careful strands of dark black hair falls from her headscarf. "Te amo," I love you, she said. "Puedes decirme cualquier cosa." You can tell me anything.

I sigh deeply, but nodding my head into the crook of her shoulder. I lean closer to my mother, a child seeking the warmth and comfort only a mother could provide, and hold her tight. I know that it's true, I can always trust her, but for this time, it's something I have to deal with on my own terms. In private. "Lo sé." I know.

━━━━━

DOMINGO11:03 PM

Dahlia Gray

I drove my mother home.

It was very surprising when she led me towards the driver seat, hazily stating that she was too tired to go behind the wheel. Thankfully, I didn't panic. With my hours of lessons and finally being able to conquer my irrational fear of being the one in control, I manage to give us a steady ride home.

The radio hums in Spanish, much to my mother's delight. She's beaming from the passenger seat, with a glowing smile on her lips and her words musing to the lyrics of Ricardo Mantaner. At the church, they were playing one of his albums, and she couldn't resist dancing to the melody or singing along. She dragged a couple other attendees, who laughed at her moves but joined her in the process. I swear my mother was smiling so hard, I was afraid her cheeks would forever be stuck in those cheekily grins.

She was happy.

The evening ends as soon as the moon begins to appear out of the dark overcast sky, burning bright alongside the twinkling stars, and the buzz slowly dying out. While my mother sings from beside me, separated by the center console, I could see her eyes fading with the realities of returning home and her muscles itching to hold up the smile that's been plastering all over her face the entire night.